To have children is a double living, the earthly fountain of youth, a continual fresh delight, and also a source of weariness beyond description. -Josephine W. Johnson

Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep I became aware of my dry scratchy throat. My head felt as if it had shrunk, like my brain was too big for my skull. The tightness and the throbbing in my head was accompanied by a heavy feeling in my arms and legs. If my life depended on my moving anywhere fast, I knew I was doomed. Rising to the top of full consciousness now, I knew I was sick. Boy was I sick! The aching, throbbing and pain in my body was not just a bizarre dream. The flu had hit me full force.

At the same time my fully awake and 100% well toddlers were ready for the day to begin. "Get up Mommy. Let's have breakfast. What are we going to have for breakfast? Are we going to go to the library today? Maybe we should go play in the park? Can we stop and see Nana and have a tea part?"

Ugh! This was the first time I became acutely aware of the fact that mothers don't get sick days! There is no one to call to say "I am not well enough to do my job today. Someone will have to fill in and handle my responsibilities." What happened to the good old days. Not the days when as a working woman I could call in sick. Those weren't the good old days. The time that being sick was anything close to being "good" was when I was the child.

Somehow my mother always knew when I was sick. Before I could open my eyes in the morning, there she stood with thermometer in hand. Kissing my forehead, she knew if I was feverish even before she read the mercury. Then she would tell me I needed to stay in bed and return to sleep. A few hours later she would return to my bedroom carrying a tray. I was going to be treated to breakfast in bed. "Do you think you can eat an egg-in-a-cup? How about a little dry toast and some ginger ale?" The only time we ever got to drink soda was when we were sick. The only kind of soda we were ever allowed was ginger ale. No matter how sick I felt, I knew that I would feel better in a few days. Then these healing potions would taste like treats.

Sometime later that same day, or perhaps the next Mom would deem me well enough to move out of my bed and into the temporary clinic of the couch! I wouldnt be allowed to watch television though. I could move closer to the center of the family's activities so I wouldn't feel so isolated. But my activities were restricted. Healing was what I was supposed to be doing. Keeping still and keeping quiet would expedite this process according to my mother who was in charge.

Usually at the beginning of my illness being still and quiet wasn't a challenge. I didn't feel well enough to go anywhere or do anything. But as I began to feel better it felt almost impossible to just lie there! Instead of feeling like I was getting better I felt as though I was being tortured!

This is when my father would step up and do his part. The hero, saving both my mother and me from the hard work of recovery. He would arrive home with treats to help occupy my time. Sometimes he had coloring books. Sometimes he had a brand new box of crayons to accompany the coloring book! The best treat of all was when he came home with brand new paper dolls. Then I feared I would not be sick long enough to get all of the clothes cut out and still have time to play with my new doll.

"How about some jello?" my mother would ask. I always said yes. But this was back in the old days when eating jello meant having to boil the water, dissolve the powder, add ice cubes and await the jello to congeal. Waiting for the jello to be ready to eat felt just the same as waiting for my body to be fully well -- too long!

"But I feel well enough to go to school, to play outside, to watch TV," days later I would tell my mother. She believed me. She had taken my temperature by both methods - kissing the fore head and using the thermometer. My body was registering "normal." She would tell me my color looked good, my eyes were clear and sparkling. And yet she insisted I spend one more day in bed. "This is to give your body the extra boost and rest it may need so you don't relapse," she would tell me. No matter how much I pleaded, attempted to bargain or demonstrate my health, she was in charge! One more day of rest was the rule.

Now, as the Mom, I wondered where the jello was? Where were the paper dolls? Imagine having a day that could be spent in bed, where I felt good and only had to concentrate on being sure my body was well rested and well!

"What's wrong Mommy? Don't you feel good?" These two little boys were not to be denied. I might be sick but they weren't. Today may not be the most fun day we've spent together. Perhaps we won't go to the park or the library or to my mother-in-law's house for a tea party. I would spend the day mostly on the couch with my cup of tea, over-the-counter remedies at the ready. Perhaps mothers don't get a sick day. But spending time with my two wonderful sons is a magical and different kind of healing medicine.

To have children is a double living. Their youth and fresh delight heal the weariness I feel from the flu.